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The Big Breach; From Top Secret to Maximum SecurityCompliments of http://www.192.comunpleasant. One evening he arranged a meeting with me at 0730 thefollowing day, forcing me to get into the office unusually early. Thenhe rang in to tell me that his train had been `delayed'. It was arelief to get out of the oppressive company, and besides it gave memore time for courses with the Territorial Army.We were obliged to learn to parachute, and I signed up for the nextavailable basic course at RAF Brize Norton. Two weeks and twelve jumpslater, the RAF awarded me my coveted SAS parachute wings. I also gotmyself on a signals course, learning how to operate the encryptedPRC319 radios and high-speed morse, and completed a basic Germancourse.I had also just passed my motorcycle test and bought a battered old800cc BMW trail bike. Inspired by Thesiger's adventures, I wanted toexperience the vast emptiness of the deserts for myself. I got aMichelin map of the Sahara from Stanfords map shop, strapped a fewjerry cans to the side of the bike, packed up some camping gear and setoff on a freezing April morning for Africa.The trip went smoothly until the end of the tarmac road at Tamanrasset,about halfway down Algeria. The soft sand exposed the inadequacies ofthe heavily laden motorbike, my inappropriate tyres and lack of offroadmotorcycling experience. I covered only five miles on the firstday, continuously bogged down in the soft sand or heaving the heavybike upright after crashing. After one severe fall the forks bentbackwards so far that the front wheel rubbed on the engine casings.There was no option but to dismantle them and turn the stanchionsthrough 180 degrees in order to get going again. The wheel no longerfouled the engine but the bike was even harder to handle. Luckily thenext morning another big crash straightened the forks out so that thebike handled properly again.Just south of the dusty and derelict Algerian village of In-Guezzam, Ireached the Niger border, marked by a dilapidated wooden hut flying afaded Niger flag and housing a small army detachment. A handful ofsaffron-robed Tuareg desert traders waited outside, their camelssnorting in a patch of shade provided by a sun-bleached awning. TheNiger border guards, supervised by a hefty-looking captain dressed inkhaki and sporting a set of sunshades, were poking through the Tuaregs'bundles. On the other side of the hut three immaculate BMW motorcyclesbearing German number plates were neatly parked. Their owners werecamped out alongside, lounging under a flysheet with a few books andmagazines, cooking a meal. They looked bored, as if they had been therefor some time, and were not much interested when I rode over to greetthem. `How long have you been here?' I asked.`Three days,' answered a tall, crew-cut Aryan type, dressed inexpensive-looking motocross gear. `That bastard,' he nodded at the fatCaptain, `vill not let us through,' he spat.I tried to lighten his mood with some small talk. `Good trip down?' Iasked cheerfully.The German looked at me, then my bike, examining its damage. `Jah,' hepaused for emphasis. `We have not fallen off once.' I left them to getpage- 19 - To purchase the original limited edition hardback version of this bookplease call 08000 192 192 or go to http://www.192.com
The Big Breach; From Top Secret to Maximum SecurityCompliments of http://www.192.comback to their magazines and went over to introduce myself to the fatcaptain.Glaring at me through his dark glasses as I approached, he bristledwith animosity. The Germans must have had a few slanging matches withhim and perhaps he expected trouble from me. Àttendez-l…,' he snapped,indicating me to go back and wait with the other motorcyclists.I didn't protest, but in my bad French asked how long I should prepareto wait. His anger abated as he realised that I was not seeking aconfrontation. Approaching a bit closer, I noticed that he wore Frencharmy parachute wings on the breast pocket of his shirt. Àh, vous ˆtesparachutiste,' I said, affecting a tone of respect.His anger subsided like a spoilt child presented with a lolly. He drewhimself to attention, puffed out his chest and proudly announced, Ì amthe most experienced parachutist in the Niger army,' and told me thealarming stories of his eight jumps.The simple piece of childish flattery was enough. After half an hour,the captain stamped my passport and waved me through. Riding awaysouthwards, in the one wing-mirror that remained intact, I could seethe Germans remonstrating angrily with the captain that he had let methrough before them.Stopping a few days later in Agades, the first town on the southernside of the Sahara, I was drinking a beer at a small outdoor bar whenanother motorcyclist approached. His front wheel was buckled and theforks badly twisted, so the bike lolloped like an old horse. Hedismounted painfully, dropped the bike on the ground rather thanputting it on its sidestand, came into the bar and ordered a largebeer. He turned out to be an orange-packer from Mallorca called Pedroand over our beers we laughed at our various crashes. He spoke noFrench, so the next day I translated while the local blacksmithstraightened out his bike, then we rode together down to Lom‚, the mainport and capital of Togo. There my trip was over and I put my batteredbike on a Sabena cargo plane back to Europe, but Pedro continued histour of West Africa. A few years later I visited him in Mallorca, andhe told me what happened next. Whilst waiting on his bike at sometraffic-lights in the lawless town of Libreville in Sierra Leone, twomen had pulled him down and robbed him. Gratuitously, one had alsobitten him hard on the cheek, leaving not only a vicious scar but alsoinfecting him with the HIV virus.I arrived back from the Sahara just in time to go on a NATO-organisedLRRP (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol) exercise in Belgium. All NATOcountries were invited to send their LRRP troops to the exercise: therewere American Rangers, German Fernsp„htruppen, Danish Jaeger troops, areconnaissance troop from the French Foreign Legion, Spanish specialforces bizarrely carrying umbrellas as part of their field kit, Greekspecial forces with bright green camouflage cream applied like aclown's mask, unhappy-looking Dutch conscript special forces,Portuguese, Canadians and Turks. We were there as the Britishrepresentatives. Ian, a former Royal Tank Regiment sergeant was our PC(Patrol Commander). Mac, a scouser, was lead scout and Jock, with abarely comprehensible Scottish highland accent was the fourth member ofour patrol. Ian appointed me signaller, meaning I would have to carrypage- 20 - To purchase the original limited edition hardback version of this bookplease call 08000 192 192 or go to http://www.192.com
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